Villain System in a Cultivation World-Chapter 10: Ye Qiu Appears

Nestled within Qin Ting's lavish private palace, a realm of splendor unfurled like a tapestry spun from gold and twilight. Steam rose in delicate, perfumed tendrils from an immense hot bath, its surface a crystalline mirror shimmering beneath the warm glow of golden lanterns that dangled like captive stars from the vaulted ceiling.

The chamber was a monument to divine craft—towering statues of mythical beasts, their sinewy forms sculpted from polished obsidian, stood as silent sentinels, their eyes glinting with frozen menace. Beside them bloomed jade-carved lotuses, so intricately wrought their petals seemed to quiver with life, kissed by an ethereal wind. The air pulsed faintly with spiritual energy, a soft hymn of power woven into the very stones, as if the palace itself bowed to its master's will.

At the bath's heart reclined Qin Ting, his imposing frame half-submerged in the steaming depths—a predator at rest, cloaked in the guise of repose. Ten maids, their figures swathed in robes of flowing silk that gleamed like liquid moonlight, moved with the grace of a choreographed dance. Their slender hands worked in unison—kneading the corded muscles of his broad shoulders, tracing his pale skin with oils that shimmered like molten amber, and offering gilded trays laden with spirit fruits and wine, their colors a vivid splash against the opulence.

His raven-black hair clung to his brow in damp, unruly strands, framing a face etched with sharp, unforgiving lines. His eyes fluttered shut, a rare crack in the armor of his dominance. The duel with Song Changge and Elder Zhang had been a trivial spark of exertion, a whisper of defiance crushed beneath his heel, and now he enjoyed the silence of triumph wrapping him in a cocoon of luxurious calm.

Beside him stood Nie You, his unwavering vassal, a figure forged from shadow and loyalty. His dark robes hung with quiet dignity, and his voice cut through the stillness, steady as a honed blade, as he delivered tidings of Qin Ting's most elusive prey: the Child of Destiny.

"Several days ago, the Lian Yun Mountain Range trembled with omens—blinding arcs of light rent the sky, and the earth quaked as if stirred by unseen hands, heralds of a rare treasure's awakening. The great sects loosed their disciples to chase the mystery. Our agent spotted Ye Qiu among them. By your command, Young Master, we shadowed from afar, reporting back without rousing any suspicion."

A faint, dangerous smile curled Qin Ting's lips, a silent nod meeting the words. 'A phenomenon of heaven and earth,' he mused, the thought sinking into him like a blade finding its sheath. Such events were no joke—treasures birthed from the world's primal essence, be it a sacred weapon forged in celestial flame or an elixir distilled from the blood of stars, held power to reshape fates, toppling dynasties and birthing legends.

Even the Xuantian Sect, a colossus astride the cultivation world, would hunger for such a prize. To send disciples into the untamed wilds was a calculated gambit: a bid to claim the bounty and a forge to temper the young in fire and blood.

Nie You hesitated, a flicker of unease shadowing his stern features before he pressed on. "Ye Qiu journeys not alone, however. Mu Qingyi, daughter of the Qianyuan Sect's Master, stands at his side."

Qin Ting's eyes snapped open, narrowing to slits of icy, glittering blue. Mu Qingyi?

The name summoned an image of ethereal splendor—Mu Qingyi, sole daughter of Mu Fang, the Qianyuan Sect's unyielding sovereign. At seventeen, she had already broken through to the Divine Wheel Realm, her cultivation a radiant flare that eclipsed her peers, a testament to her bloodline.

She was the sect's unrivaled jewel, her divine arts a symphony of grace and ruin—each motion a dancer's flourish, each strike a tempest unleashed. Yet it was her beauty that sealed her myth: a visage of alabaster serenity, eyes like twilight stars, and a presence so luminous she'd been anointed as 'Goddess Mu', an unattainable vision haunting the dreams of the Eastern Wilderness's young cultivators.

A low, mocking chuckle rasped from Qin Ting's chest, edged with scorn. 'The Child of Destiny wears his title well,' he thought, relishing the bitter irony. 'If memory holds, Ye Qiu once spat in the Qianyuan Sect's face before all eyes—an insult that should've carved his grave.'

For any other soul, such audacity would have summoned a swift and brutal end—blood spilled, bones ground to dust. Yet Ye Qiu not only stood unscathed—he'd ensnared the Sect Master's daughter as his shadow. That kind of fortune was a treasure beyond gold, a flame that stoked Qin Ting's greed even as he sneered at its bearer.

'If I could tear that luck from his sorry hide,' he mused, his gaze flashing with dark, ravenous ambition, 'and add it to my Villain System's might, who could stand in my path?' The thought blazed within him, a smoldering ember flaring into a wildfire of hunger for absolute dominion.

He sank deeper into the bath, steam weaving a shroud around his furrowed brow, veiling the storm brewing in his mind. The Lian Yun Mountain Range beckoned, a stage too perilous for lesser hands. Ye Qiu's reckless bravado—the hallmark of a Child of Destiny—demanded Qin Ting's own blade, his own judgment.

Song Changge and his ilk were ants crushed beneath his stride, Jiang Zhongbai a fleeting gnat fated to wither in winter's grasp. But Ye Qiu? Ye Qiu was a cockroach—stubborn, unkillable, forged in the tired tropes Qin Ting recalled from the novels of a past life long shed. No matter how fiercely fate struck, the Child of Destiny always clawed back to the light.

His voice sliced through the haze, cold and commanding as a drawn sword. "What play has our Xuantian Sect made?"

Nie You straightened, his tone crisp as frost on stone. "The candidates for the expedition team are set, but the leader remains unchosen. Most True Disciples are needed elsewhere, and Song Changge was their spearhead—until..." A wry, knowing grin split his lips. "Young Master left him a mangled corpse. He's no contender now, for this or any breath beyond."

Qin Ting tilted his head, the faint ripple of water echoing his quiet approval. Such celestial omens typically drew a sect's rising blood—disciples honed under a prodigy's watchful eye to secure triumph. But with the Xuantian Sect's True Disciples entangled in distant affairs and Song Changge reduced to a hollow relic, their options frayed. An elder could lead, steadying the effort with seasoned hands, but the sect's pride would bleed for it—a wound that might tempt lesser factions to strike, mistaking caution for fragility.

Resolve hardened in Qin Ting's chest, forged like steel in the fires of his will. Rising from the bath, water streamed from his towering frame in glistening torrents, unveiling a figure of raw power. The maids shrank back, their gazes dropping in silent awe as the air thickened with his presence. "Inform the elders that I'll lead the Lian Yun expedition myself."

Nie You sank into a deep bow, his voice a solemn oath resonating through the chamber. "By your will, my lord."

The opulent bath chamber fell into a hushed stillness as Nie You withdrew, his dark robes vanishing into the shadowed corridors beyond. The maids followed, a procession of silken figures dismissed with a flick of Qin Ting's hand after fulfilling their duties—drying his sculpted frame with soft linens and draping him in a robe of shimmering purple that clung to his form like a second skin.

Now alone, Qin Ting stood amidst the lingering steam, the golden lanterns casting a warm glow across the jade lotuses and obsidian beasts that flanked the room. With a slow, deliberate exhale, he turned his focus inward, summoning the Villain System with a single, resolute thought. Ye Qiu loomed on the horizon, a persistent thorn in his ambitions, and Qin Ting intended to be armed for the reckoning.

A translucent panel flickered into existence before his eyes, its surface awash with arcane runes and glowing text that pulsed faintly, as though alive with malice. His sharp gaze settled on the tally of his Villain Points, the currency of his evil—35,000 points gleamed in the ethereal light.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he traced their origins: 5,000 points for unraveling the enigma of Ye Qiu's past. 25,000 for shattering Song Changge and Elder Zhang in a single, brutal stroke, and another 5,000 for sowing discord between Luo Yuan and Feng Qianhan, a rift that festered still. Each triumph had swelled his reserves, and now the system's shop beckoned—a trove of power ripe for plunder.

'Let's see what I can claim,' he mused, his eyes narrowing with predatory intent as he scanned the panel.

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The first item flared into view: "Dragonspine Sword, top-grade spiritual weapon. Unsheathed, its blade gleams like a precipice peering into the abyss—ethereal, profound, a dragon's soul coiled within its steel. Cost: 29,000 Villain Points."

Qin Ting's brow arched, a flicker of intrigue stirring within. The description painted a weapon of mystique and menace, its edge sharp enough to cleave both flesh and spirit—a treasure that could etch a name into the annals of history for a cultivator clawing through the Divine Wheel Realm. But Qin Ting had transcended that threshold, his ascent to the Divine Spirit Realm rendering it a mere trinket.

'A mere trinket,' he thought, dismissing it with a faint scoff. 'Perhaps a toy for a loyal dog later on.' He waved the notion aside, the panel shifting under his gaze.

The next prize quickened his pulse: "Golden Armor of Arcane Metal, a defensive marvel forged to withstand a full strike from a Divine Palace Realm master. Cost: 240,000 Villain Points."

His breath hitched, eyes glinting with naked avarice. This was no petty relic—it was a bulwark, a shield against the storms of fate. The Purple Star Robe draping his frame was fine, its threads laced with defensive charms, but it paled beside the Golden Armor's promise. A single blow from a Divine Palace master could sunder mountains, yet this vowed to hold firm.

'A trump card for the decisive hour,' he thought, picturing himself unscathed amid a battlefield's ruin. But the cost—240,000 points—loomed like a taunt, far beyond his grasp. His jaw tightened, frustration simmering beneath his icy calm. 'Not ruthless enough yet,' he grumbled inwardly, the system's silence a goad to his hunger.

The panel flickered again, unveiling lesser wares. "Concentration Pill, imbued with a calming essence to steady the mind. Cost: 6,000 Villain Points."

'Useless,' he decided, flicking past it without a glance. His will was steel; he needed no such crutches.

"Fire Cloud Fruit, a blazing delicacy that amplifies one's fire affinity upon consumption. Cost: 15,000 Villain Points." Another rejection. His path bowed to no single element—fire held no sway over his grand design.

The dim glow of the system shop's interface flickered in the air before Qin Ting, its endless list of offerings taunting him like a cruel jester. His 35,000 Villain Points hung over him like a sentence—too meager to claim the treasures that set his blood ablaze with yearning, yet far too precious to waste on the scrap littering the lower tiers. Frustration gnawed at his patience, sharp and relentless. He leaned back against the shadowed stone wall, the cool silk of his robe brushing his skin like a whisper, and dragged his eyes over the glowing text with a scowl.

Then, a single line snared his gaze, sharp as a blade catching moonlight. His breath hitched, caught in his throat. "Random Spirit Beast Egg: a sealed orb of potential. Upon hatching, it yields a Spirit Beast of unpredictable lineage. Cost: 30,000 Villain Points."

For a moment, the world stilled. Then, slowly, a grin crept across Qin Ting's lips—wicked, unrestrained, the kind of smile that promised chaos. A gamble. A reckless toss of fate's dice, cloaked in mystery. The idea sank its claws deep into him, tugging at the twin threads of curiosity and greed woven into his soul. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to seize the unknown.

'A Random Spirit Beast Egg?' His thoughts erupted into motion, racing with the precision of a master tactician laying siege to an enemy's fortress. Before his mind's eye, the possibilities unfurled like a scroll of forbidden lore, each vision more intoxicating than the last. What if fortune turned its golden gaze upon him?

He could picture it vividly—a phoenix rising in a torrent of flame, its feathers a cascade of crimson and amber that scorched the sky; a dragon, its midnight scales glinting like obsidian, its roar a hymn of destruction; or perhaps a beast of legend, a qilin cloaked in mist and thunder, its presence alone a testament to his growing dominion.

'One high-tier companion would tip the scales in any battle,' he mused, his pulse surging like a war drum beneath his composure. He could see it now—armies buckling under the weight of his new ally, their banners trampled into the dust as he carved his name deeper into the world's bones.

His grin widened, eyes glinting with a hunger he didn't bother to hide. Thirty thousand points was a brutal cost, a fortune carved from his hard-won spoils, but for a prize that could redefine his path? It was a wager worth every drop of blood behind it.

Yet the shadow of doubt slithered in, as it always did, curling around his thoughts like smoke. What if fate spat in his face? What if the egg cracked open to reveal not glory, but a pathetic wretch—a trembling whelp with watery eyes, or a mangy mutt too frail to snarl?

'Thirty thousand points, gone,' he thought, his jaw tightening until it ached. The loss would burn, a bitter thorn in his pride, but it wouldn't break him. He'd endured worse and clawed his way back. If it came to that, he'd draw his blade without a second thought—slit its throat, flay its hide, grind its bones to dust, and walk away with something to show for it. A villain didn't weep over spilled chances.

But if the stars aligned—if luck bent to his will—what then...